Tsuyosa:: Strength
by RK Otaku
Summary: Years before the Battousai emerges, a young Shinta hears out a prophecy in an unusual encounter.


**Title**: Tsuyosa : Strength

**Author**: RK Otaku

**Genre**: Angst/ Drama

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Years before the Battousai emerges, a young Shinta hears out a prophecy in an unusual encounter.

**Disclaimer**: This fanfiction was written for entertainment purposes only, not for any monetary profit. Rurouni Kenshin belongs entirely to the creator Watsuki Nobuhiro-san, Shueisha, Sony and Jump Comics.

AN: **The flashback takes place from the POV of an OC. You'll know when you get to it.**

* * *

Outskirts Kyoto 

5th year of Ansei (1859)

Rain.

It crashed down on the earth, piercing the soil with a thousand needles. Flashes of lightening adorned the midnight sky, a jagged silver thread tracing myriad patterns on the indigo tapestry. Violent gusts of wind blew from the west, till the air was thick with the salty tang from the sea.

The world was held spellbound to the blatant display of power, as nature unleashed her fury on guilty mortals living in this time of turmoil. Hoping for Kami-sama to grant some semblance of justice to the innocents.

Hoping.

Pleading.

Praying.

Knowing.

Knowing that her entreaty was echoed in the minds of the three figures that sat huddled in the corner of a stable. They sat, the child in the middle, in the temporary oblivion of the unknown that only darkness could offer. They sat, in the cold, ignoring the chill that was seeping through their bodies. They sat, fearing the existence of a man that had escaped nature's wrath. The very man who now seemed to be mocking nature by committing vile deeds before her very eyes.

Kasumi dug her fingers violently into Shinta's gi as another scream rent the air. The pain of her nails digging into his tender skin was nothing compared to the violent shudder that racked through him, as the sound of a whiplash echoed into the overwrought night. Beside him, Sakura whimpered into the mud-soaked sleeve of her yukata.

_Akane…Akane…_

She whispered her name again and again and again. A plea for forgiveness, a prayer for strength.

Shinta raised his trembling eyes to gaze at the ravaged land outside. Crops had failed for the second time in two years. Work was scarce. It was the same almost every night. The master would go out to town, returning home in a drunken rage. Vent his frustrations at them. His slaves. His playthings. His possessions. Sometimes it would be Fumiya- kun, sometimes Kazuto- kun. Even young Haruki- chan, who barely lived six summers could not escape his fury.

They would return to the others late at night- covered with angry- looking welts and bruises. Unable to move, too weak to rebel. Looking forward to another back- breaking day in the fields when the sun rose again. The days stretched into a vicious never-ending cycle. A circle of pain and suffering, with only a single escape, with only a single solution.

For many nights as he lay under the star- dotted sky he had prayed, wished dearly for this agony to end. For the pain from his heart to go away. To be carried somewhere far, far away where there were no sufferings. No pain. A place where spring did not end, where open meadows stretched on forever under the sun-kissed skies. Death, once an ominous monster lurking in the shadows, seemed like a friendly specter on those nights.

At least then, he knew he would not have to endure this misery.

At least then…he would see his parents again.

Shinta inhaled forcibly, feeling the telltale pricking of tears at the corner of his eyes. His jaw ached with the effort he made to cease them. His voice choked in his throat. The acrid smell of the fields floated into his conscience, as the tears that threatened to fall down his cheek ebbed a bit. He averted his eyes in shame.

Dame! He was a man. Men did not cry at the drop of a hat. Otou-chan had told him stories about them. Real men stood up against injustice and fought. Fought for the glory of their family. He could protect no one. _He_ was not a real man.

He was afraid.

He was…weak.

Sakura pressed herself firmer into his gi. As if he was the only one to turn to at this time of terror, as if he was the only rock in the swirling depths of a stormy sea. He felt helpless, the lowest kind of traitor at their blatant trust.

"Don't look Shinta. It will be over soon. Yakusoku." Kasumi's tormented words echoed through him, as her nails clenched spasmodically into his wrists, drawing blood. Red liquid dripped through the minute gouge marks, flowing out from his veins, flowing out from his soul.

Akane's screams of anguish were drowned out by a volatile cloudburst. The whiplashes were coming down more loudly now, more frequently, tearing through the restless air to rend at his heart.

_Don't look Shinta. _

Driven by a demon, helpless at the unseen force that suddenly gripped his petite body, his eyes fixed on the master's room.

The shouji was closed, firmly, securely as if to ward off the wisps of silver metal the heavens poured on them. Against the light of the only lamp in the entire night, the silhouettes of Akane and their master- posed like the war scene in a bunraku performance. Overpowered…and dominated. Victor and the conquest. Dancing the lethal dance of suffering.

He clapped his palms over his ears, praying that the harsh reality would fade out. That the thunderous rumbling of the clouds and the cries that besieged his own soul would die down. That the lightening illuminating their faces for a split second would disappear, leaving him all alone in the dark. But try as he might, he could not ignore the insistent callings of his inner conscience. The cry to protect. The cry to defend.

Sakura tightened her vice- like grip on his sleeve, preventing what his heart dictated he do.

Those demons in his mind chanted on. Taunting him. _Weak_.

_Someone, anyone- take me out of this place_. Onegai, he begged silently.

His entire body trembled, numbness washing over him in waves. A welcome chill settled into his veins, drawing upon his heart.

Kasumi turned her head abruptly to look at the still profile of the boy who reminded her of her own dead brother, the boy who they had come to raise as their own, to protect with their lives. A gasp escaped her. Her heart thudding in her bosom, she realized that the boy's eyes were no longer the vibrant, joyful violet- but hollowed out and empty, lifeless like his numbed soul.

* * *

_**

* * *

Flashback **_

* * *

Thirst. 

Parching his throat. Sapping his strength, robbing his will. The afternoon sun beat down upon him, searing into his skin, magnifying its cruelty. The dust from the road settled in his throat, choking his breath, as the wary miles lengthened out in front of him. It seemed that the forces of nature stood in battle against him, ready to rush upon him, overwhelm him at any moment.

The colours of the women's kimono, of the greenery of the countryside seemed to blur in front of the piercing sun. In an almost coma- like state, he stumbled along the road, as whispers filtered into his consciousness.

The shunned one, they called him. Left without honour. Stripped of dignity. Unworthy of even human kindness.

Irony. He grimaced. Yes, that was it.

Him the loyal servant of the nation.

Him, the one who wished only prosperity on this land.

Him, the son of this soil.

Suddenly, consequently, his will snapped. The breaking of an over-strung bow. His knees gave out below him. Raising one hand to the sun, as if to ward off its wrath, the son of the soil sank to the ground, becoming one with it.

* * *

His dormant senses registered the cool slide of a sodden cloth over his weather- burnt cheek. Sunlight flickered and danced in golden waves in front of his eyes. Seconds later, the cool trickle of water slid down his throat, sating the dry roughness in his throat. Briefly savoring the coarse friction of the fabric against his face, he blinked. 

The world swam into view in front of his gaze. The daylight filtering through the thick foliage of the cherry trees traced an elaborate pattern of his travel- weary robes. The soothing melody of the stream as it rippled nearby echoed in his ears.

He looked around.

A pair of violet eyes greeted him back into the world of the living. A young boy crouched near the rocks, dipping his bamboo canteen into the flowing waters. He was clad in a faded hakama, and a meticulously patched gi. His hair flowed down from his tiny shoulders, the fiery tresses glinting in the sun. The lad jerked at the sudden movement at the corner of his eye, and turned around, his straw sandals scraping the rough ground.

"You're awake."

It was a simple inconspicuous statement, but somehow it carried a wealth of meaning.

"I've been walking for a long time". The monk said simply.

"Come, sit by me". He shifted on his place at the river- bank and patted a hand on the ground beside him. The boy obediently did as he was told, without much of an argument.

They sat together- boy and man, each in the silence of their own thoughts, in a few stolen moments of solitude before they returned to the harsh world.

The monk was uncomfortably aware his saviour's curious eyes lingering on him- the thorough assessment of his person, the simple black robes from the monastery, to the customary kesa.

He fixed his gaze on the pebbles near his tabi, absently noting their smooth shape, the ease with which the water flowed over them. Evidently satisfied his childish curiosity, the lad settled back.

"Anou…" Shinta cleared his throat again, but the words would not get out. "Houshi-sama? "

"What are you doing in these parts? You should go back to your monastery."

He could feel the question before it was even asked. He sighed, and braced himself to answer it.

"Can't. They threw me out… Always said I ate a lot." He grinned and patted his abundant belly with a relish. "One day a visiting monk from another han arrived, a huge feast was prepared in his honour. But, I ate most of the mochi. The other monks weren't pleased, so they threw me out…" _Seemed believable enough._

"Aa". Both relapsed into silence again. The red headed child kept on sneaking sidelong glances at him. Discreetly, but not enough so that his seasoned eye would not notice. As if he wanted to tell him something.

There was something strange about the child. Though he kept his silence most of the time, he seemed to have a sense of perception that many adults lacked.

A part of him wanted to open up. End their little game of verbal hide-and-seek. To give voice to the feelings that lingered inside his heart- to convince at least one person about their truth. The truth that lied inside the minds of all the people, but yet dared not be uttered. The burden that the people of the nation all carried, yet put on a smiling façade for the society's sake.

"Why…" The frail voice resonated into the silence that was the surroundings.

The muscles in his gut knotted, clenching painfully to force out the truth from his lips.

"Because I spoke against the Shogun. "

His eyes went back to staring at the stream. The boy's gi was ripped, stray threads hanging randomly from the sleeve. His hands bespoke of hard work, the skin was rough with toil, toughening out into broad calluses.

"Isn't that a bad thing? Okaa- san said that the Shogun is a good man."

The boy looked at him with tormented eyes. Fate had made him sacrifice the idealism of innocent childhood, imposing on him a mask of cynicalness before his time. But this time, even the words had made his eyes soften with an anticipation of a miracle; which he was taught not to expect.

The monk looked at him, but his eyes were no longer the jocular twinkling eyes of a benign stranger, but they held an unmistakable edge of seriousness, an indomitable will to fight.

"A new nation, born in blood, bathed in sacrifice will arise. No matter how right or wrong that may seem, it is the only outcome the ebb of destiny and fate would allow."

The monk was no longer talking to the boy next to him; he was not even living in this time of oppression. His eyes were far away, gazing into the golden depths of the river, the one blessed to see visions of the future.

"One day, boy, people will fight the injustice to bring in a new era. It will be a hard path, knowing that there will be sacrifices to make, sorrows to endure. But, in the end, we can all give our children the precious gift of a new era. Of a new life. Of the childhood we never had"

The country aching from eons of repression and subjugation was like a volcano ready to explode. The unrest spread across like wildfire, burning unceasing till the land was tainted with the shades of revolution.

Nobody knew what the future years would bring, but he hoped that this child, already bearing the hardships of a grown man, would not burn in the blaze.

_I may not be able to help you, but maybe in the new era you will find the peace that you deserve._

The holy man stood up silently, temporarily cutting off the sun from his line of vision. Stealthily he walked across the clearing, his heart at rest, the boy engrossed in his own thoughts.

Shinta remained silent, two entities inside his mind conflicting again and again.

_Could I really believe?_

_Would the new era truly bring peace?_

Silence.

He turned around, only to find that the wind had whipped the words from his lips, carrying them on its wings to destinations unknown.

The monk, a messenger of good fortune, had disappeared.

* * *

End Flashback

* * *

The sound of the shouji sliding open melded in with the harsh gush of the rain. The dull thunk of something landing heavily on the muddy ground made Shinta look up. 

Kasumi and Sakura were already on their feet, abandoning their safe haven to help their friend. Outside, lightening danced its waltz of death and destruction. The rain lashed out, cutting across his skin.

Akane' s prone form struggled to get up from the ground. Bruises fanned her delicate face. Her once pristine white yukata was blood red.

Akane. Red. Blood.

The angel of suffering.

Rising from the ashes.

As though knowing where exactly he was, she turned to face the dark stables and gave a small smile. A heart- wrenching glimmer of hope in the midst of such despair. His little heart shattered.

For the first time, he fully understood the meaning of what the old monk had told him long ago.

_Grant me strength so that one day I can fight for my people._

_Grant me strength so that a new era might dawn._

A breeze swirled around him, wafting to his nose; the scent of spring, of rainbows and open fields, of long vacations spent with friends under the sakura trees. Shinta reveled in it- and as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. The frigid rain poured over him like a thousand thorns.

The breeze had gone, but the feeling remained. He kept the hope safe, deep inside his heart where no one could snatch it away from him.

In a frail voice made deep with conviction, he whispered, "Daijoubu, Akane-san. Everything will be all right."

**Owari.

* * *

**

Japanese glossary

**Dame!** – Exclamation of disgust/ despair. Something like "Damn it!"

**Otou-chan**- Father (Form of address)

**Okaa-chan**- Mother (form of address)

**Gi**- An upper garment worn with a hakama

**Hakama**- A pant-like garment that was worn traditionally by men with a gi. Also worn sometimes with a yukata (weird, but the fashion of those days was to mix and match). Fastened to the waist with ties in the front, it had long slits running from the waist to mid-thigh to allow freedom of movement. Needless to say, no one wore _only_ a hakama.

**Yukata**- A light robe worn in the summer months, as everyday wear, or for very informal occasions.

**Onegai**- "Please". Used when making a request/ pleading.

**Yakusoku**- I promise

**Bunraku**- Puppet theater

**Houshi**- Buddhist monk

**Kesa** – a scarf folded over the robes of a monk.

**Han**- Province ruled by a daimyo

**Mochi**- rice cake.

**Shouji**- Rice paper door mounted on a wooden frame.

**Sakura**- Cherry blossom.

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A/n- 

**This story takes place in the pre- Bakumatsu era, when the farming class was literally taxed to death. There was general misery all around, but it wasn't an everyday thing to talk to strangers about hating the Government. **

**I know slaves never wore 'pristine white yukata', but please allow this one for dramatic purposes. The character of the monk is a little off, when I imagined the story, I always visualized him as a Sano- like person who enjoys lives to enjoy life, who would go against society's beliefs if required, but who possesses a kindly soul. **


End file.
